


the first week of a very long exile

by fluffysfics



Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Period-Typical Racism, but reasonable historical accuracy has been ensured, disclaimer: I am a historian but not an expert in 1940s border control, period-typical bigotry in general, the Master’s time on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:28:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29247318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: The Master barely escapes the Nazis in Paris. Exhausted, injured, and miserable, he makes his way to the Swiss border in search of safety.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147559
Comments: 9
Kudos: 46





	the first week of a very long exile

**Author's Note:**

> friends in the Thoschei discord server inspired me to do one fic per decade during the Master’s time on Earth, so- here’s the first one!

The three hundred mile long trip across France is more _annoying_ than anything else. 

Perhaps, though, that’s just because the Master is scared to let himself feel much more. If he focuses on the annoyance of the bruises around his wrists, the burns on his arms, then he can’t think about what the Doctor has done to him. 

He doesn’t trust himself with a vehicle, so he walks to the Swiss border. Every step hurts. The bullet wound on his shoulder from the Adelaide Gallery still isn’t quite healed. He’s been putting his mental energy towards healing the other wounds; the less time he has to spend with the marks of Nazi handcuffs on his wrists, the better. But it hurts, everything seems to hurt, and it never _stops_. 

The night before reaching the border, he rests by some secluded bushes, not wanting to risk the mile walk to the nearest village. He closes his eyes, and dreams of fire. 

_A police station in flames- the agonised screams of humans, the acrid smell of burning flesh and clothes. His own skin stinging from heat, but he hardly notices. He’ll make everyone in that damned building regret arresting him._

_And then, an older memory- a whole planet burning down to ashes, the smoke rising high enough to be seen from space. A glorious civilisation built on the back of twisted exploitation, utterly ruined under his hands. It’s almost selfless. It kills him inside._

The Master wakes with a start. 

The sun is just beginning to rise, casting a soft dawn glow over the landscape. It’s beautiful, and it seems so _wrong_ , that the world can be pretty when he is hurting so very, very much. 

Curling tighter around himself, he thinks back to that night in the outback. Sitting with the Doctor’s shoulder pressed against his own, listening to her talk and talk, feeling a whole universe spin itself into reality from her words. He’d wanted to kiss her, that night, been so sorely tempted- it had seemed like the press of her lips against his would have solved all of his problems, wrong as he knew that to be. 

And to think, barely a day later and she’d stranded him on Earth with a group of people that would have been all too happy to torture and kill him. The manic flash in her eyes as he’d shoved her up against the railings had said it all, really- she truly didn’t care, when her companions weren’t around. He could have killed her and she’d have regenerated laughing. 

They really are _far_ too alike this time around, he thinks. 

The sun rises just high enough to shine directly into his eyes. The Master scowls, and gets to his feet, ignoring the way his head spins and his body aches. Only a few more miles to the border, and then he can _rest_. Switzerland is safe; there’ll be no more seeing his face on posters, hearing his fake name broadcast on radios. 

An hour more of walking later, and he knows he’s found the right place. A low stone building with military men at the door, and the French and Swiss flags fluttering in the early morning breeze outside. One of the men spots him, and there are almost immediately two guns pointed at his head and left heart. For a brief, mad moment, he’s tempted to reach for a fake weapon and let them shoot him. 

“State your business here,” the taller of the two guards calls to him. In French, which the Master has had to learn very hastily these past few days. He misses his TARDIS _deeply_. 

“I’m seeking refuge,” he says, raising his hands to shoulder height. The bullet wound throbs. He ignores it. “I’m a wanted man in France. Germans don’t like my politics.” 

Really, that’s the understatement of the century. But it’ll do for now. 

The two men glance at each other, having a mumbled conversation that is too fast and too French for him to catch. Then they shrug, and lower their weapons. 

“Make your case to the guard inside, _monsieur_. Good luck to you.” 

He’s still not quite used to masculine forms of address after being Missy for so long, but that’s not the important point here. What matters is that he’s in. The Master drops his hands, thanking the guards with a relief that is a little more genuine than he wants to admit, and steps inside. 

The building is dim, the windows small and high up on the wall. Everything in here looks a little makeshift- there’s a wooden desk set up and another soldier sat behind it, surrounded by walls of filing cabinets. The Master is striding up to that desk when someone behind him sneezes, catching his attention. He spins around, and falters. 

Sat in huddles along the building’s back wall are close to forty people. Most are women and children, the mothers teary-eyed and the children looking exhausted. The Master catches the eye of a young man with tight dark curls and scared eyes, clutching the hand of a young white woman with a baby in her arms. 

He stares for just a moment, a cold shiver prickling down his spine, then quickly turns away to the desk. Come on. Now is no time to feel bad for humans. 

The soldier sat there looks him up and down dispassionately. 

“Switzerland can’t take anyone persecuted due to their race, religion, or other beliefs,” he says, sounding like he’s reciting from a textbook. “Our country is full- we are accepting political refugees only.” 

The Master blinks. _Full_? He can see the land on the other side of the border out of the nearest window, and it is anything but full. 

“I _am_ a political refugee,” he insists, resting his hands on the desk. “My face is on Nazi wanted posters.” 

The soldier looks him up and down. “ _You’re_ a politician? In _France_?” He sounds incredulous, on the verge of laughter. The Master feels a muscle in his forehead twitch, that good old barely-suppressed anger beginning to rise to the surface. “Go on, show me your papers.” He’s openly grinning now, looking far too smug for his own good. 

“Do you expect all refugees to have papers? Bearing in mind that refugees are _fleeing persecution_?” His knuckles are turning white where he’s gripping the edge of the table- the Master hears the wood creak faintly under his hands. 

“That’s the law, _monsieur_. If you don’t have your papers, you can leave, or you can sit with the rest of that sorry lot.” 

He’s reminded abruptly of the crowd huddled up against the wall. The Master glances back at them, and feels a faint headache starting to throb above his temple. He will never, _never_ understand the human race. 

“Who are those people?” he asks. 

“Mostly, they are Jewish refugees. A few- what’s the modern word, inverts? Homosexuals? A few with partners outside of their own race. The usual lot,” the soldier says, as if he’s listing items from a restaurant menu. “But they are not political refugees, and neither are you, _monsieur_ , so move along.” 

The wooden desk snaps. 

There’s an inch-long splinter in his hand, and the pain is red hot. His hearts are pounding in his ears- anger suffuses his body, leaving the Master shaking with a sudden flood of rage. The soldier behind the desk is reaching for his gun, drawing in a breath to call for backup. 

“Don’t you move a _muscle_ ,” he hisses, dark eyes flaring with hypnotic control. The soldier freezes completely, expression going slack as he gazes up at the Master’s face. “You’re going to let me through this border now. Tell me what you’re going to do.” 

“Let you through the border,” the soldier says, his voice far-away as if he’s daydreaming. “One moment, _monsieur_ , let me put together your new papers...” 

Okay. Good. His hypnosis still works just fine, even when he’s incandescent with anger. The Master straightens up, closing his eyes and taking a slow, deep breath. The splinter throbs in his palm- he draws it out slowly, relishing in the hot pain and the blood that wells up in the wound. He’s alright, just a few more minutes and he’ll be safely in neutral territory, and there’ll be no more—

Behind him, a child starts crying. It’s loud, it’s plaintive, it’s... _afraid_. There’s a chorus of hasty shushes, quiet soothing words and the start of a calming song in an Earth language that the Master doesn’t recognise. 

Humans, he thinks, are utterly ridiculous. Leaving their own kind to hide in the shadows, terrified for their lives, just because they’re afraid of one of their little countries becoming a bit crowded. The Time Lords had hardly been better, far too happy to exile anyone who broke their archaic laws. Perhaps every society was like this, destined to shut out anyone who didn’t belong whilst building themselves up on the backs of those very outsiders. He certainly hasn’t seen much proof to the contrary. 

Another throb of pain pulses in his skull- he remembers scenes from the Matrix, remembers a young child lost and alone, scared and exploited, and his hearts twist. He’s never going to recover from what he’s seen. Maybe one day it’s going to kill him. 

“ _Monsieur_? Your new papers are ready. Welcome to Switzerland.” 

The Master starts, snapped out of his reverie. He takes the papers, sliding them slowly into his pocket, and glances back at the crowd. 

_Fuck_. 

“You,” he says, turning back to the soldier, “are going to write up papers for all of these people, and then you’re going to let them across the border. You won’t tell anyone else that you’ve done it until they’re all safely into Switzerland.” 

The man looks momentarily like he wants to argue, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Every time he brushes too hard against his desk, it creaks alarmingly. Resistance absolutely will not do- the Master leans in closer, glares at him until he stills. “Your will is _mine_ ,” he insists. “You will obey me.” 

The soldier nods dully, pulling another application in front of himself and beginning to write. 

_Good_ , the Master thinks. Good in more than one sense of the word. Good as in...he’s _done_ something good here. _Him_. _Good_. The concept nestles itself snugly between his hearts, and sits there, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. 

“Hey,” he says. “Stop for a moment. Look at me. How many people have you stopped from crossing this border in the last week?” 

The man thinks. “One hundred and thirty-two.” 

_Perfect_. 

“You’re never going to forget a single one of their faces. Every time you think about turning someone away in future, you will remember those people. For the next one hundred and thirty-two nights, you’re going to dream about them. Bad dreams. The worst nightmares you’ve ever had. Am I clear?” 

“...Yes.” The soldier does not look happy, but he nods. It’s probably not all his fault that so many people get turned away, the Master thinks. But someone should be punished, and this soldier is here, so he gets to bear the burden. The Master won’t have anyone saying that he’s turned good. Not that there’s anyone who knows him around to make such accusations. 

“Good. Carry on writing those applications, and do not stop until you’re done, no matter how long it takes. Make sure these people get across the border safely.” 

The soldier nods again, and carries on writing. 

With that said and done, the Master turns, heading towards the building’s back door. There are papers in his pocket, and he doesn’t have anything else, but he’ll make do. There’s a lot of opportunities in the universe for someone with loose morals and a talent for hypnotism. 

He pushes the door open, and bright sunlight streams into his face- a new country, a new start. Just seventy-seven more long years to go. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! comments and kudos are very much appreciated <3


End file.
